Editorial December 25, 1989 Issue

Gifts from the heart

William E. Moody

There's one Christmas I remember more vividly than any other from childhood. I must have been ten or eleven at the time. Our family had traveled by car seven hundred miles to spend the holiday with my grandparents. We arrived only the day before Christmas.

My grandmother and grandfather lived in an old cypress frame house, with porches all around. The property was bordered by woods on two sides, a broad river, and a slow-paced country highway. And even though this was central Florida, that December was especially cold. The house was drafty and not really built for winter weather. So, on Christmas Eve, Grandpa took out all the blankets and fixed up a couple of beds for my brother and me in the living room. It was the only room with a fireplace.

Grandpa got a good fire going and pulled up the wool covers around our shoulders. His love for us was the kind of love that felt even warmer than the fire burning in that old fireplace. He loved us unconditionally, with his whole heart. And we knew it.

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